


Twice The Laughs

by anotherjadedwriter



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Anal, Bondage, Choking, Double Anal Penetration, Double Penetration, Foe Yay, M/M, Masochism, Rape/Non-con Elements, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-25 19:40:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10771077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anotherjadedwriter/pseuds/anotherjadedwriter
Summary: The Joker gets caught by Superman and Batman in a team-up. Everything is super consensual, but it being a villain/hero deal, I wanna cover my bases.





	Twice The Laughs

The Gotham skyline is, as always, striking. Skyscrapers dotting out the squatter-holes and expensive penthouses, women in flapper dresses and drug dealers with suicide doors, costumed cops and painted villains. Gotham’s really got it all. It’s a dark city on the edge of the water, full of alleys and seedy diners and bad, bad people. You like to think you’re the worst. **  
**

You like to think you’re the baddest in the best way, not in the mundane, prostitution and gun-running and plain old boring tired “murder”, lazy thoughtless pointless plotless murders that have no tact and no _entertainment value_ or background plot. You, you are entertaining. You’re hilarious, the best joker in the whole deck of villains skulking through this smog-choked city. You’re explaining all of this, walking in circles around the dangling form of Batsy, Batman, Bruce Fucking Wayne.

Then, there’s a blur from the left, something you almost can’t see. Blue.

That all said, you do sometimes get caught. After all, being tackled by the Man of Steel kind of makes it hard to finish your very important, extremely funny monologue. And then the Man of Steel (who looks ‘suspiciously’ like that reporter you see sniffing around scenes you didn’t make) is pinning you to the ground and the Batman is standing over you, looking down his nose with this cold glint like steel and your knife digs into your ribs under your coat and that makes your ‘ _knife_ ’ dig into the ground under your hips. You’d be embarrassed if you could.

It isn’t every day that you catch the bat, and just as you’re trouncing around getting tackled by Superman, it comes to mind that this apparently was some kind of plot, because he’s out of your trap and standing over you like he is and all sharp eyes and a snarl and you’re trapped, now. Assholes.

You laugh, of course. Laughter is the only way to handle goodie-goodies like these two. And with any luck, might help with your not-so-little problem.

“Stand him up.” Batsy says, and you can’t even react before you’re off the ground and he’s hanging you by your arms and it hurts and you’re hard, just right there in front of him. He makes some kind of disgusted noise and you, honestly, do feel a little embarrassed. You don’t make a point of flashing your personal space at people. Still, his eyes linger, longer than just making sure, longer than anything other than interest. _Gotcha._

Licking your lips, you grin, eyes wide. “Think you could help me out, Batsy Lou?” You waggle your hips, getting too little friction but twisting your shoulders just a little more. “Before you send me off to Arkham. I won’t even try to hurt you too bad.” You reach out with your foot and manage to wrap a leg around his hips, snickering a little. You wonder aloud, over your shoulder to the Supes. “Do you think he’s cut? Oh, you’ve probably seen it, don’t spoil my surprise.” You pretend the lighting is good enough to think he had a smirk at the edge of his mouth.

Then you dangle, feeling your shoulders threaten to pop out. Wait for them. It’s only proper to wait for them, after all. You even manage to only mutter about popping his cherry under your breath. Really, you’re outdoing yourself, being so patient and _polite_. Something silent passes between Bats and Supes over your shoulder and then he’s closer, stepping in until the hard codpiece is against your cock, unforgiving and cold and pretty fucking good.

Before you can even think to lunge, a super-strong hand is tangled in your hair and yanking your head back, snapping it back until your teeth rattle in your skull. And he’s kissing you, his tongue shoving into your mouth while Bats in front of you pulls your shirt open to drop your knives. Kent, the alien, pulls your secret razorblade back in his teeth when he finishes kissing you, and you want to be annoyed but that was clever. And his hand in your hair feels good. You can feel your dick getting more impatient by the moment with the grip he has on you.

Bruce’s hands are on your chest, and you see his eyes under that stupid mask, looking at you with embarrassment. He stops and removes his gloves, and you make an unnecessary moan when his warm hands press to your chest again, thumbs flicking over your nipples. It’s almost endearing, how he’s making sure you enjoy yourself. Almost cute. Kind of annoying, though.

“I know what you’re thinking.” You breathe, finally allowing yourself to grind forward against his codpiece. “Is this morally improper? Can he agree? Can he **really** agree?” You grind again with a groan. “They wouldn’t even ask, when they got here, but I can. I do. So stop _kibitzing_ and fuck me. It’s been a long time coming, hasn’t it?”

Bruce swallows sharply, but doesn’t speak. Doesn’t have to; you both know the answer.

Kent murmurs behind you, his grip shifting to keep from popping your arms out of your shoulders, and instead your arms get twisted behind your back in a good good _really good_ way. Or a bad one, really, working up towards a spiral fracture if he wanted to use even an infinitely small amount of his strength. Before you can wonder, however, if he could be cajoled into it, your pants are pulled open and down a little. 

“Smart move, Superman. He’d dislocate his shoulders if you kept holding him like that.” Bruce murmurs, wrapping his hand around your cock and staring at it. It’s jarring for anyone, really, to see a bright white dick and balls (though it isn’t all white, that would be weird, you have _blood_ ). Or maybe he’s judging your boxer pattern. Either way, he’s stroking you until you’re dripping pre over his fingers and you’re going to enjoy it.

You roll your hips into his hand, wondering if he’ll let you down. “We’re all friends here, Brucey. You can call him Cla-” Clark twists your arm just a little, and it’s so good your cock twitches in Bruce’s hand. “Ar-ar, fuck, fuck, don’t _stop_ twitsting _that_.” You’re bucking, leaning hard against the pressure, the aching throb coming in twisting waves from your trapped arms.

But he does, because true evil is impossible to ignore, and you don’t get a broken bone to get off on. Oh well. He’s been weirdly silent (though you assume that he just doesn’t want to admit to his hometown hero good boy corn and biscuits morals that he’s about to fuck a super villain because he won), but when Bruce grabs something out of his belt and pours cold lube on the purpling head of your cock, he speaks.

“Bruce, why do you carry lube?” You feel his voice rumble through your chest and you swear your dick twitches. He moves closer to you and you feel his dick against your ass. Thank god for super aliens, you’re looking forward to not walking right for a week. Not that they let you out much in Arham. “Is it branded too?”

His hand glides like a dream over your skin and you settle for trying to gauge Kent’s size by pressing your ass against it. “We can talk about it later, Clark.” He cups your balls and you notice, then, in his hand, the bottle. It is branded.

“It is branded.” Clark says, laughing, but he shifts you again and his dick is against your ass with no barrier. Fuck yes. Aliens are great. You love aliens. “Bruce, that’s ridiculous.”

After a second of getting hotdogged and jerked off and feeling pretty good, you have to break the weird rhythm. Because you’re not going to have them see your dick and ass and nipples and all (and know that Superman is packing serious heat) without getting at least one of them in you. “Hey, Bruce, Brucey-goosey, I could suck you off, if you want.” You lick your lips, grinning.

“You’d bite it off.” He snaps, fingers sliding under you and pressing slickly against your hole, pushing his partner’s cock out of the way. That’s better. “I’m not stupid, Joker.”

For a moment, you wonder if you should tell him your name. Then you shrug, he doesn’t really care if he hasn’t found it on his own, shuddering when that makes your shoulders twist. “Probably. I can’t help but try.” His first two fingers shove into your harshly and you almost purr. It’s so much easier when they know you want it to be rough. Or when they’re mad. Either is really _all_ you could ask for.

His tongue slithers out to lick his lips and you almost lean forward to bite it, but Superman yanks your head back so fast you see stars, his hand in your hair exactly the right amount of tension to remind you that he could snap your head right off, if he really wanted. Another finger coated in Waynecorp lube presses into you and it’s starting to burn, now. What is it with these hero types and having such burly hands, anyway? Though, you’re more used to doing it yourself, anyway, and anticipating the movements when you control them doesn’t make it sting as much.

For the briefest moment, you feel yourself weightless, falling, and then your arms are bound behind you, just as tight, not as unforgiving now that you’re not being held up by that, but by resting against Kent’s chest with your legs around Bruce’s waist. The bat-cord digs into your arms and you only get a moment to wiggle and pull at it before Superman is pulling your head back sharply, so sharp that you moan and so far that you can’t close your mouth, and shoving three fingers into your maw. You can’t bite his off, after all.

Not to say you don’t try, just a little, and when you do he jerks your head back again and again until Bruce tells him that you like it. _Spoilsport_. He doesn’t seem to really feel your teeth, anyway. Lights pass outside the warehouse, which causes your ‘captors’ to freeze (you even feel Superman’s breath catch), but you’ve long since sent the hench-clowns away, and no one is going to interrupt Superman and Batman fucking the Joker, and the lights pass as soon as they came up. Superman seems to relax (maybe he’s remembering that he could be gone the second someone even thought of opening the door) and adjusts you over him, one hand gripping the back of your coat to hold you up and the other holding his ‘tool’.

You can hardly suck in a breath before Batman’s hand is gone and you feel empty and then Superman shoves the head of his cock into you and, oh, and your scream is muffled against Batman’s hand. And it’s good, it burns just a little but it’s good, better than fingers and hot and some measure thicker than your usual. He makes a small groan, and you struggle to push back, your balls twitching. Kent is coated with lube, thankfully, and even if he isn’t gentle with you, he doesn’t just force himself in. You’d laugh at being bounced like you are, centimeter after centimeter sinking into you with each careful move, but you’re panting, legs twitching when he pulls you away from Batman's waist to hold your legs further apart. This angle aches, but you won’t complain. Arkham will be a relaxing time of rest for you, really, after this. 

Being captured isn’t as bad, if this is what happens. Or at least, you know that you’ll be bothering Superman sometime soon for another session. You wonder if he’d pin you to the ground or if he’d worry about skinning your face.

“Ohh, fuck.” You groan, seated fully on his cock. “Is it wrong to love an alien~? I think I do~” You croon, wishing you could touch yourself, looking over your shoulder at his All-American jawline and blue eyes and wanting to bite him. You don’t bite him, but you want to. Almost as much as you want to touch yourself. Almost.

Though you might not actually need to, because he lifts you and slams into you with a jarring thrust and you go limp against his chest, glad he’s holding you up, because you’d be weak in the knees if you were standing. Batman wraps his hand around your dick, pumping roughly, and you shudder, gasping and bucking as much as you can, pressing back against his cock and forward into his hand, squirming delightedly when Kent pinches your nipple, tugging it between two fingers. You’re almost so absorbed by Kent starting a slow, deep rhythm to notice Bruce pressing a finger into you alongside his cock. And that is a lot.

“He’s tighter than I thought he’d be.” Bruce breathes, pumping the finger in and out of you more slowly, and Kent stays pressed fully inside you. Stretching you. Not moving, even when you tell him to with your best **Authoritarian Powerbottom** voice. “With what Ivy was saying, anyway.”

You vaguely wonder what Poison Ivy would have to say about your personal parts, and specifically your ass. If anything, you'd think she'd be more interested in talking about your dick, but hey, you aren’t going to judge. Even if she apparently calls you a slut in her free time. You’d be more concerned with her sharing information you told her in confidence if there wasn’t a second finger being pushed into you.

Head falling back, you pant, feeling yourself drool on the Man of Steel’s shoulder and your hands twitch against his chest and your back and your legs shiver. You can’t move, though not for lack of trying, while you’re worked open. No, all you can do is breathe sharply and shudder and try to relax. It still burns, still makes you have to focus, but at some point, it’s enough, and you feel the head of his cock against you, wrapped in what you must assume is a Waynecorp condom. Smart of him, don’t want anyone to have proof that you’re right about who he is.

You expect him to just shove into you, but he starts slow, and the burn and rhythm, the twist in your arms and the feeling of being held up, has you moaning, groaning, twitching, your slightly flagging cock returning to full hardness as he pushes into you. If you were a modest man, you’d be embarrassed by the low stream of ‘fuck me fuck me fuck me’ spilling out of your mouth, but as it is, Batman stuffs your pocket square in your mouth, and since (as he knows) it’s tied to about three feet of silk hankies, it shuts you up pretty quick. Even if it dries your mouth out. 

You know their names, of course, but something about the situation makes you prefer to think of them as their super egos. _Identities_ , you mean, of course.

It’s almost like being fucked into a wall, but the wall also is fucking you, with how immovably solid Superman is behind you. You’re panting, not exactly silenced but muffled, muddled by the handkerchiefs. Still, you ask loud enough for him to hear (read: at all) and get offended; “Is it beastiality to love an alien?”

Ten fingers sink into your thighs just enough to remind you that he could snap them, just enough to make you bruise deep and make you moan and buck yourself down the rest of the way onto Batman’s cock. It’s great. You feel sore and full and fucking hot, and you’d babble as much if you could work your mouth at all, now that Superman’s shoved three more handkerchiefs and three fingers into it to shut you up properly. Superheroes never want to listen to anything you have to say. Not that you have much on the mind now, of course, but you never did like being gagged.

At least, you don’t like being gagged like this, without being asked. But you’re learning to like it, your teeth sinking into his fingers and your jaw being yanked a little in response, the rough drag of your cock against Batsy’s suit makes you squirm and shudder.

“Don’t let him move too much.” Bruce’s voice is heavier through his distorter, and you kind of like it. It sounds _predatory_. “He’ll break his arm.”

Your breath leaves your lungs in a rush when Superman’s arm wraps tightly around you, pressing his chest against your back. You hardly gasp in a breath before Batman’s hand is tight around your throat, squeezing the sides of your neck to make your head swim but not do any real damage. You’d complain, but it still feels pretty fucking great. Like all of your horrible fantasies all mixed up together. All you need now is for Ivy to come call you a bad, bad boy. If only you had called her in. She’d probably have all kinds of fun with this. Or get caught up with Harley, you suppose.

Your cock twitches and you jerk, sucking in a sharper breath. “Fuck me, fuck me, god, fuck, ah, ah, aha ha hahahahaa!” You twist desperately, your legs twitching and white streaking against Batman’s suit as you cum, your entire body going tense and your laughter getting too breathy to be any recognizable sort of giggle. They slow and you force your mind to come back together as much as you can, telling (you don’t want to acknowledge the _begging_ of it, not _yet_ , not when you mostly have control of your voice) them not to stop.

They stay slow for a few seconds, Batman taking your tie to wipe his suit (he yanks your head down when he does and it’s **so** _good_ ) and Superman graciously stroking your flagging cock back to hardness. “Such a gentleman. Your mama raised you right, Kent.” His fingers constrict just enough to hurt and you hiss, managing not to call his mother a whore only because you want to keep that, please and thank _you_.

Can’t say anything to a superhero anymore. It isn’t like you went Luthor and threatened his family. He’s on your turf.

That said, he is jerking you off and fucking you so well you’re losing feeling in anything that isn’t an erogenous zone. Batman’s hands take up two posts, one on your ass groping you in a way that makes you feel like you should have been doing squats for the past, er, however long you’ve been alive. The other pinches and tugs at your nipple, teasing it until it’s hard, then leaving it alone to switch to the other. It’s really a very involved thing, you’d question it if you weren’t trying to make the most of this situation, doing everything you can in your state. Which is mostly just flexing and moving counterpoint a little, but by god, you are trying, and that counts for something. 

Not much, presumably, but something. 

This is going to ruin you. You’ll have trouble getting off to anything else after this. That said, you’re working up to another orgasm and they seem only a little phased, so you can live with it. You have hands and you can get dildos if you need to, after all. The bruises on your thighs ache so well and you wish one of them had a knife, almost try to slur it out around the moans, but it’s not worth the effort. They would only be disgusted, anyway.

Already you can tell your legs are going to be useless, but Batsy is panting, the sound distorted and almost terrifying when you close your eyes, and the rhythm he and Supes had found is falling to the wayside to just going faster, harder, _deeper_ into you, which feels fucking amazing. And then he’s full into you and stops, hips twitching, and you’d be a liar if you didn’t do your best to memorize his O-face, because you’re a man with needs and this isn’t going to happen much, probably.

He pulls out after a while, groaning, and you feel the loss for only a second, because before he’s even stuffing the condom into his pocket to keep anyone from finding his DNA, Superman is slamming you against the wall, still spread eagle, and you’re crushed into the wall as he moves against you _harder_. Like he doesn’t care that he might break you. Like he _just might_ break you.

It’s perfect. 

His hand plants against the back of your head, smashing your face against the wall, and you’re so ecstatic that you’re drooling against the wall, your cock still in his fist to keep from grinding it against the cement, you assume, and his hips slamming forward just short of too fast for you to keep up with. It’s so _good_. He jacks you off in time, his hand staying lubed up because he’s got super speed and probably makes lube with his brain or something, he’s fucking overpowered.

All too soon, too suddenly, you’re coming against the wall, shuddering. “Fuck! Fuck, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, oh _fuck me_ , ah, ahah.” You gasp, shaking all over, and feel yourself getting worked up again because he’s relentless, slamming into you the wall enough that your ribs creak.

It’s great. You wonder if you’ll pass out. You almost hope so.

Batman is cleaning himself up, presumably, and you only notice in the moment of clarity between your own orgasm and your next erection. It actually hurts to be hard again, but not the kind of pain you’re not into. Though, that is a short list. A short, fluid list.

You’re so focused on his cock in your ass that you almost don’t notice his hand connecting to your skin, leaving a stinging mark. That’s something you didn’t expect. He spanks you a few more times, not saying anything you can hear over the constant muttering you can’t seem to stop.

He grinds into you, his cock filling you deliciously, and you slur again that you love how it feels, and then heat spills into you and it’s the best feeling you’ve ever felt. His cum is like fire that makes you shoot the instant it touches you, screaming as your cock twitches weakly, going limp before Superman even pulls out of you. You crumple to the ground and shudder, sucking in harsh breaths as you feel the heat inside you dissipate and spread through you and make you so fucking tired.

Ha ha. _Fucking_  tired.

Vaguely, you feel someone redress you, and then you wake up in an ambulance on the way to Arkham. The workers aren’t saying anything about any sexual activity, but you’re sure they haven’t checked. That’s fine; getting the Man of Steel and the Knight (night? It’s too vague) involved in some weird legal/moral case would be no fun. Moral quandaries never are, after all. You’re sore all over and strapped to the stretcher, and you swear to god you’ve never felt better. 

The next time your puddin-pop breaks you out, you’re paying a visit to Metropolis. You’ll get caught right away, but the Superman will definitely be worth the effort, if the tingling at the base of your spine is any proof.

Oh yes. Oh, you’ll be seeing Kent again, definitely. Even as you’re wheeled into processing and then into your room, still furnished the same despite your requests for a foosball table (you’ll have to call the hotel director personally, you threaten, to no laughter. _Boring_.), you’re plotting a prank that will make the Flash’s rogue look like a tack in teacher’s chair.

Metropolis will be your next piece of art. They’ll be saying your name for years, the sheer cleanup will be the stuff of legend among janitors. Maybe you’ll get a batch of super-gas made up and see what Supes looks like when he’s pale white and red and green. Or, if nothing else, you’ll come so hard you pass out again. Both are good.

**Author's Note:**

> my first contribution to this fandom. terrible,  
> if you enjoyed this, consider tipping me here: https://ko-fi.com/A781PZJ


End file.
